Last week I had dinner with an old friend whom I haven’t seen in over ten years.

Rod’s living in the area now, having been transferred by his company. Back around 2002, we were both employed as security people in Hollywood, and working toward our individual goals of breaking into the entertainment business. Neither of us made it.

At the time, Rod was doing a few auditions here and there while working his day job with me at the Hollywood & Highland complex. The following is an account of one of those auditions…

Actor Jason Lee as “Earl,” in the late sitcom, My Name Is Earl”

“My name is ROD”

I was kind of sad to hear that the TV show “My Name Is Earl” had been canceled a while back, but not really sad because although it started off well, it had gotten kind of like the writers were getting bored or smoking crack.

But you don’t have to be a fan of that show or even to have seen it to appreciate this story. This is because I’m going to tell you about a friend of mine who was on the show, and his seven-year-old son who was almost on the show, and the shame of it all.

I used to work with Rod during my Hollywood days and he’d often tell me about his occasional acting gigs because he was your typical actor-wannabe who was working a regular job while going around doing auditions. He also has a son, Peyton, and a daughter, Janelle; respectively 7 and 13 at the time.

Peyton is a kid actor who loves doing it so much that Rod and Mrs. Rod went and got him a kid agent. That’s an agent for kids. The agent isn’t a kid just so we’re clear. I think the agent is about 30 or 40 something, but that’s really not relevant to this so pay attention, okay?

When they were casting “My Name Is Earl,” Peyton’s agent called Rod and Mrs. Rod to have them bring Peyton to the audition for the part of one of the two kids of Joy (Jamie Pressly) and Darnell (Eddie Steeples). Mrs. Rod had to work that day so Rod brought Peyton and had Janelle, Peyton’s older sister, come along to help.

They arrived at the audition and were about to walk into the room when Peyton announced he had to go potty. So Rod told Janelle to take him to the restroom while he went to sign-in. Rod walks into the room and a casting director looks him over, then says, “Oh, you’re here for the cop role! Great! Come on over, we’ve been waiting for you.”

Rod tried to explain that his little boy was in the restroom and that it was he who was the one here to audition for the kid part, but they didn’t listen. A sheet of paper was thrust into his hand and Rod was asked to read from it.

“Sir, you’ll have to move your car.”

It was a simple line and Rod has a booming James Earl Jones thing going on, but significantly younger, so he sold them in a second. They told him he was perfect for it and then gave him instructions on where to be and at what time.

It was a very tiny part, which fans of the show may recollect from the first episode. The Del Taco guy (as in the wimpy actor who played the head of Del Taco in TV commercials for a long time) goes to a gay club but sits out front in his car, afraid to go in. A black cop approaches him and tells him he can’t park there. The guy says, “I’m not gay!” and the cop says, “Well you’re still gonna have to move your car!”

That was Rod.

So Peyton returned from the restroom with big sister Janelle and they had him read a few lines plus took some pics of him but he didn’t get the part, which would have been ongoing throughout the run of the show. But Rod got the part of the cop in the pilot episode.

Watch out, Rod… karma’s a bitch.

NOTE: My last security gig was over ten years ago, and I haven’t done that type of work since. Rod, on the other hand, is now head of security for Pixar Corporation. The entire thing.

It’s Oscar weekend again, which always reminds me of the time I won an Oscar, but it was really a flashlight, and I didn’t really win it, I had bought it, and the theater was empty, but otherwise it was exactly the same.

Bob and I were a couple of security guards schlepping around in the soon-to-open Hollywood/Highland complex during an overnight shift back in 2001. It was all new to us and it was kind of a mess and we even had to wear hardhats.

The Kodak Theater was in the center of the complex, and we knew they’d be holding the Academy Awards there after everything was to open, so we decided to go take a look. The Dorothy Chandler Pavilion had been the venue for quite a few years prior to that, but the Kodak, which they now call The Dolby Theater, was built from the ground up with the Oscars in mind.

Since clocking-in at 10:00 pm that one night in late October, Bob and I alternated patrols. He went out first, then I went the next hour, and so it was until we got to about three in the morning. He’d wrapped up his 2:00 am patrol (it took about a half-hour to walk through the whole joint) and, as he came into the make-shift construction shack that served as a temporary security office, he made a proposal:

“Say Dave what do you think about us both going out at three? I’m bored to tears, but I also found an open door over at the Kodak Theater and want to take a peek inside, but I don’t want to wander around in there by myself.”

We were the only two security guys on duty but we knew some crew had been working all night in the Kodak, so the unlocked door he found wasn’t that big of a deal. We were smack-dab in the center of sleazy Hollywood, with Hollywood Boulevard on one side and Highland Avenue on the other, but the whole place was ringed in tighter than a drum with construction fencing.

The 3:00 am patrol was mine anyway, and I was glad to have him come along. We weren’t necessarily supposed to leave one guy at the security office, we could just lock it up and leave. We were only alternating patrols so as not to get too worn out.

We both started out at three and just made small talk until we’d made our way over to the theater about twenty minutes later. Bob pointed out the unlocked door and we gently nudged it open, calling out loudly, “HELLO! SECURITY! JUST CHECKING! ANYONE HERE?”

We weren’t really supposed to be in there. We’d been left a memo saying that a crew would be working inside, but it didn’t say not to go in, so in we went.

The place was brightly lit, so we turned our flashlights off and sheathed them as we took in the splendor of the newly designed theater. It was gorgeous, and much to our surprise, it was finished.

There wasn’t another person in sight and no one had answered us when we shouted out our intentions. Stage lights and house lights were on full, and everything looked entirely finished. Not a bit of plastic sheeting was laying around; no construction tools, loose cable, or anything like that. It looked like it would look ten minutes before they’d open the doors to let an audience in on a show night.

I’d dabbled in theatrical circles before, and I’d even been a house manager of a small performance theater a few years prior to this, so my guess was that we’d walked in on a tech rehearsal for a show that was soon to open, and we had perfect timing.

There were probably only a few crew members getting lights and things ready for the first show to open the theater. The Acadamy Awards wouldn’t be for a few months and, as I recall, the first show was something by Disney. I just don’t remember what it was.

My guess was that if we’d shown up fifteen minutes earlier or later, we’d have been assured that everything was okay and we’d have to leave after a fleeting glimpse of the interior. But as it was, the crew had probably slipped out onto Hollywood Boulevard to grab lunch at one of the numerous all-night pizza joints and diners in the area, and they’d be back very soon.

So of course, Bob and I went up on the stage. I stood in the center, a little toward the front, and gazed out onto the sea of empty red seats, which I could barely see because of the intensity of the stage lighting. The house lights being simultaneously on were the only reason I could see out there at all.

I thought ahead several months when many fabulously famous Hollywood A-listers would be standing on that spot, nervously stumbling through the narrative on the teleprompter. “The nominees for best (whatever) are..”

I decided to get a taste of it, to nudge my imagination as to what it must be like, so I unsheathed my flashlight and gripped it the same way I’d seen so many lucky recipients grip that little gold dude in the past, and I secretly hoped the crew would extend their lunch by at least another five minutes.

“I’d like to thank the Academy for this award,” I stammered loudly, to a huge theater occupied (I hoped) only by Bob.

“It’s been a long road and I have many to thank, but not a lot of time, so here goes; God, my mom, my high-school drama teacher, and of course everyone who worked on this film, ‘Night Security,’ including my co-star BOB, who is way more deserving of this flashlight than I am.”

Bob had jumped off the stage and I could barely make out his huge grin from down in front of me, right about front row center. “Okay, you nut!” he said. “The orchestra has kicked in and you are out of time, buddy, they’re playing you off! We need to get the hell out of here before these guys come back.”

He was right. I kept the flashlight in hand because we’d be out in the darkness again in a few seconds, but I had to linger at the door and take one last look around. I didn’t see the inside of the theater again until the actual live broadcast of the Academy Awards the following March of 2002, and I saw it on TV just like 3.2 billion other people.

But I had a new appreciation for those who would stand on that spot and try to get through their lines in front of half the world. I only had Bob watching that night, and it was still exhilarating, so I’ve not been one to poke fun at any celebrity who fumbles a name or a line while occupying center stage. There’s no way it’s an easy affair, no matter how comfortable with the spotlight a person might be.

See that guy pictured above? His name was BM1 Powledge, and he made my life hell for a short time, which seemed like a long time, but hey, I was young and time moves quicker now.

I never knew his first name. I wasn’t supposed to since we weren’t buddies; we were as far from buddies as you can get. He was my division petty officer. To all of us, his first name was “Boatswain’s Mate First Class,” which you could shorten to “Bosun’s Mate,” or better yet, “BM1.”

He was every bit as nice as he looks in the picture. Here, let’s have a close-up:

“I eat sailors like you for breakfast.”

I got out of the Navy in 1982 after a few years aboard a ship called the USS FANNING. Here it is:

USS FANNING at Hunter’s Point, San Francisco

Please note that the photo above does not employ a “vintage filter” to make it look old. It actually IS old. I snapped this pic while heading to the ship one morning with my little Kodak Instamatic, and the above was scanned from the only print I have, which has been turning yellow as the years slide by.

In June I’ll be sixty, which has taken me by surprise. I really don’t know where the years went, mainly because I don’t have very many of those old, yellow photos to show for all of that living.

My first job right out of highschool was washing dishes in a restaurant, and I barely remember the two guys who ran the place. I don’t remember if they were good bosses or bad, but I suppose if they were one extreme or the other I’d remember, so perhaps they were “just okay” bosses.

From that job I went into basic training for the US Navy, so I suppose you could say my first two REAL BOSSES were First Class Petty Officers Frix and Holversen, who of course made my life a living hell for three months of Navy “Boot Camp.”

If you’ve ever seen “Full Metal Jacket,” then yeah, they were kind of like Gunny Seargent Hartmann (portrayed perfectly by an actual Gunney Seargent named Ermey, may he RIP), which means they weren’t really bosses at all, but more like demons whose sole job was to terrorize young guys and mold them into mindless drones who would just follow orders and shut the hell up.

That indoctrination didn’t sit with me very well so it was surprising I even made it out of basic training, but BM1 Powledge took over the job once I reported onboard the Fanning in 1978.

I’ll put it this way; I didn’t take the photo of Powledge shown above, my old shipmate pal Jeff did, and he sent it to me a few years ago. This was my reply to him…

Thanks a LOT, Jeff! When I saw that pic it struck terror into my heart and I ran and hid for a half-hour.

Back in the day, we in First Division had a little game called, “Hiding from BM1,” which a fella would get quite good at after he’d been on the ship for a while. A lot of nooks and crannies on a vessel like that.

We had an officer in charge of the division — an Ensign named Shatinski — and a chief named Castillo — but we didn’t have to worry about them as much as we did BM1 Powledge, who was a no-nonsense kind of guy. I don’t think he ever cracked a smile.

Looking at his photo now, I see a different guy, but mostly because I’m a different guy at this point in my journey. Back when I was nineteen, he looked very old and experienced, at about thirty two.

Yeah, now I look at that and I see a young guy very set on his Naval career and busting his ass to make good for his bosses, who happened to be Chief Castillo and Ensign Shatinski at the time.

I lost track of him after leaving the ship in ’82, but I do know that he got promoted to Chief and was being transferred to head his own division somewhere right around the time I left.

However it all worked out, I have something to say to the now long-retired and possibly deceased (but I hope not) BM1 Powledge:

Thank you.

Thank you for whipping me into shape, and not letting me get away with some of the sketchier things I tried to pull off back then. Thanks for giving me a work ethic, and helping me to see that shining the brass couplings for hours on end wasn’t really about shiny brass at all (although it was nice to look at), but rather, it was a discipline. An exercise in focus.

Thanks for shaping me up and helping me to adopt some values that I’d have otherwise missed. I’d like to apologize too, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you for what, but also you knew it was the territory.

Babysitting a bunch of 18-23 year-olds couldn’t have been easy, especially the right-outta-high school bunch getting their first taste of life outside of home, and stretching their boundaries.

So, thank you’s and apologies galore to this man, who had a part in shaping me into who I am today.

Today we are celebrating a tradition here in the United States, where a group of large men who resemble gladiators, toss an odd looking “ball” around that’s wrapped in pigskin as they pummel each other for points.

American football players making a big fuss over a pointy little ballPhoto by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It’s called “football,” and since it’s the biggest game of the year, ending “the season” and determining who are the best-darned players in the whole nation, I’d like to take advantage of the festive spirit of it all to talk about the parents of late night talk show host, James Corden.

James Corden on “The Late Late Show,” with his mum and dad

James is actually from England, and so are his parents, who visited San Francisco three years ago on this very weekend. James hosts a talk show on CBS here in America, and it’s on really, really late, so they call it “The Late Late Show.”

They play football in England too, but it’s a different kind. First of all, the balls are super easy to roll because they’re actually round, whereas ours are all pointy and don’t roll well at all. Try rolling one someday and you’ll see, they just kind of wobble.

An American football, not rolling on grassPhoto by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The rules and the objective of the other kind of football game are also quite different from ours. The players are not allowed to handle the ball with their hands, so they use their feet a lot to kick the ball around the field. Sometimes they even use their heads.

Our big gladiator guys handle their pointy balls with their hands, throwing them and carrying them, so we should actually just call it “handball,” and we would, except there’s a whole other sport already called that, which uses tiny round balls which players smash against walls at about a hundred miles per second, afterward toweling off before heading back to their jobs at the law firm.

If you just found this blog and you don’t know me from Joe Montana, who is a now-retired American football player who happens to live in San Francisco (which is nowhere near Montana), you should know that I also live in San Francisco, where I make my living as a tour guide on one of those open-top tour buses you see in major cities.

Here I am, giving a tour on a bus. “The Golden Gate Bridge is orange…”

The big, American football spectacle every year is called “The Super Bowl” because it’s really super, and they play it in a big stadium that bears a slight resemblance to a bowl.

It’s kind of strange how they work it. We have another sport here called “baseball,” and at the end of the baseball season, we’re left with two opposing teams who play a “best of seven” series against each other, splitting the difference between their home stadiums.

But The Super Bowl is different. First of all, it’s only one game, so everyone takes it quite seriously. Also, they pick the stadium bowl way ahead of time, before they even know which two teams are going to rise to the top in the end.

So those two teams battle it out on a Sunday, which is always right around this time every year, and they do so at a stadium bowl that isn’t necessarily the “home” stadium bowl of either team.

For example, this year they are playing “The Big Game” in Atlanta, which is somewhere in the state of Georgia, but the teams are “The New England Patriots” and “The Los Angeles Rams,” neither of which live anywhere near Atlanta.

Oh, I should mention that I started calling it “The Big Game” in the above paragraph because the outfit that puts on this spectacle every year — “National League Football” — owns the previous term that I shouldn’t use now, because they will likely sue my pants off if I continue calling it that.

Therefore I will now stick with the non-lawsuit generating generic term, “The Big Game,” for the rest of this post.

In 2016, “The Big Game” was played near San Francisco, but of course, the two teams of gladiators who made it to the top didn’t live here. They were from Denver, a city in the state of Colorado, and North Carolina, which is somewhere in the south.

They were “The Denver Broncos” and “The Carolina Panthers.”

Now, don’t ask me why most teams of gladiators are named after a city, like “The DENVER Broncos,” while “The CAROLINA Panthers” are named after an entire state, North Carolina, and they don’t even use the “North” part in their name, given that there’s also a South Carolina, because I have absolutely no idea.

Also, just to add to the confusion if you’re not an American person and you don’t live here and you know almost nothing about our football and geography, North Carolina is in the south, but so is South Carolina, so we call North Carolina what we call it, only because it’s north of South Carolina, even though both states are in the south.

If you’re totally confused, we can switch back to football now, if only to confuse you even more.

Frankly, I’m not much of a football fan, so I don’t care about it at all. To be honest, I care more about “the deficit,” and I don’t even know what that is.

At this point, you’re probably wondering what late-night talk show host James Corden, who is English, has to do with any of this, and why I’m talking about football — be it round or pointy — when I’ve just confessed to not being a fan?

Well, in 2016, when the Denver gladiators played the gladiators from North Carolina, we had a bunch of fans show up and take our bus tours during the week proceeding “The Big Game,” which was going to be played on the following Sunday at our stadium.

It was easy to tell which people were fans of which team, because the word “fan” is short for the word fanatic, and these fanatics would show up wearing the appropriate jerseys to support their chosen teams.

I personally liked the Carolina Panther jerseys best, because they’re a lovely blue on black motif, whereas the gladiators out of Denver Colorado wear blue also, but with mostly (ugh) orange.

No, I’m not gay.

I’d really love to show you pictures of these jerseys, especially the pretty panther ones, but all of these colors and trademarks and stuff are owned by the teams and “National League Football,” and again, I don’t want to get my pants sued off.

So just google that stuff yourself if you really want to see them.

On the Saturday right before “The Big Game,” I was hosting a bus tour that seemed to have a nearly equal number of fanatics who were all wearing jerseys reflecting their allegiance to their respective gladiators, but standing out among the sea of blue, black and (ugh) orange, were two older people who were each wearing a jersey from an opposing team.

He was wearing a Denver Broncos jersey, while hers was that awesome Carolina Panthers thing, which really brought out her eyes and nicely matched her earrings.

AGAIN, I’M NOT GAY.

They appeared to be a couple, holding hands the way they were, and to make it even weirder, I noticed that they were English because the man used a delightful English accent to ask me where they could find a good restaurant in Fisherman’s Wharf after the tour.

I directed them to Scoma’s because it’s a good restaurant in Fisherman’s Wharf, and that was that.

We didn’t really chat much as they were getting off the bus because I had a whole lot of other fanatics wanting to know where to go for this or that, but I did think it odd that two older people with English accents would be supporting two opposing American football teams and would apparently be attending “The Big Game” the following day.

The next day was Sunday, which was game day, and I managed to make it through the entire day without seeing one minute of “The Big Game,” opting instead to give tours to non-fans, who numbered maybe 20 people at best, mostly from India, Sweden, and Uzbekistan.

Several days slipped by uneventfully, which brought us to the following Wednesday, late at night, right before bedtime. I had just settled down with my WIFE of many years (NOT.GAY.SEE?) and we decided to wind down with a viewing of James Corden’s “The Late Late Show,” which had taped a few hours earlier down in Los Angeles.

After his opening monologue, they came back from commercial and James said something to this effect:

“Since *THE BIG GAME* was on Sunday… (he used the actual term because his show is on CBS, which has the rights to use it, unlike me, and I like my pants) …we thought it would be great to fly my mum and dad from across the pond (England) to the states, and send them up to San Francisco to take in the biggest American football game of the year”

Then he showed a video of “mum and dad” horsing around in San Francisco, hanging out with gladiators and watching “The Big Game,” and since you’re so darned smart, you smart reader you, I’m sure you’ve already guessed that “mum and dad” were the two nice English folks I had on my tour the previous Saturday.

I had been drifting off gently to sleep during Jame’s monologue (I’ve had people do that during my tours, so I know how it feels) but this video got my attention when I noticed that “mum and dad” were that English couple, so I sat upright on the bed and nudged my wife (NOT.GAY), telling her that I had met them a few days earlier.

After James played the short video of “mum and dad” horsing around, they cut back to the talk show studio and what took place then is in the video I’ve posted for you below.

James asked his dad what the highlight of the trip was, and dad replied:

‘Apart from the experience of the actual *THE BIG GAME*, we did one of those hop-on, hop-off bus tours, and the guy who did the commentary was fantastically knowledgeable, BUT really entertaining and funny…”

James interrupted, saying:

“HOLD ON, so we had flown you to San Francisco, to go to *THE BIG GAME*, and the best bit was the hop-on, hop off bus tour? Are you sure you’re not being paid by the company to say that?”

Yeah, we’re sure, because that company was the company I work for, and that guide was me. Now I was bouncing up and down on the bed, shouting:

“DAVE! MY NAME IS DAVE! I SAID IT ABOUT 18 TIMES DURING THE TOUR, MISTER CORDEN! DAVE DAVE DAVE! DAMMIT, MY NAME IS DAVE!”

At this point, my wife — Mrs. Dave — reminded me that people on TV can’t actually hear you no matter how loud you shout, and therefore it remains a one-way street, despite how much you’d like Mr. Corden to say your name to a nationwide audience of millions of talk-show fanatics.

So, alas, I may have a video posted below to prove that it actually happened, but since he didn’t utter the name “DAVE,” you’ll just have to take my word for it when I tell you I was the guy.

I’ve gotten my share of compliments over the years along with a few grumbles here and there, but to this day, my favorite compliment stands above the rest, because of a fun-loving Englishman who gave me a sincere shout-out to a national audience late one night in February of 2016, even though he couldn’t remember my name.

Thanks, Mr. Corden, and I hope you enjoyed The Big Game between the Denver Bronchial Asthmas and Caroline’s Pretty Panthers, or whatever they’re called.

I’d ask you who won, but I bet you don’t remember (completely understandable) and frankly, I don’t care at all.

There was this big, dopey kid who worked as a valet at the hotel where I used to work. I’d taken to calling him “Invincible Andy,” because his name was Andy and he seemed to think he was invincible.

I first noticed it while chatting with him in the lobby one day as a guest walked by. This particular guy was a really big dude; a pro-wrestler type with 30-inch biceps and a massive chest. We both said hello to him as he passed and once he was out the front door I said, “I’d hate to run into THAT guy in a dark alley if he were mad at me.”

That’s when Andy said, “Eh” and shrugged.

“What do you mean EH?” I asked.

“You know the old saying, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.”

“Oh YEAH, Andy, you’re going to knock THAT guy on his ass?”

“Sure man, you just have to know where to hit him.”

He shrugged again and walked away, an air of nonchalance clinging to him like cheap cologne.

Andy is not a small guy. He clocks in at about 6’1″, and maybe 220 lbs at the most. But he’s a blob and I’d bet my last dollar that any run-of-the-mill bouncer could easily bounce him should he need bouncing.

This “eh” thing along with the accompanying shrug had been a pretty consistent trait of his whenever something was brought up that could prove potentially harmful or even fatal.

“Andy, you wouldn’t want to drink a cup of arsenic, it would kill you!”

“Eh.. (shrug) just down a cup of milk as fast as you can afterward and it’ll neutralize it.”

“Andy, if you walk in front of a city bus and get hit, it could throw you as much as a hundred feet and break every bone in your body!”

“Eh.. (shrug) just tuck and roll right before impact, you’ll be fine.”

One evening we were all standing around in the valet area talking, and Rodrigo the gangster was telling a story about a friend of his who was in prison.

Rodrigo wasn’t really a gangster, he was employed as a house-man, but he looked like a gangster and talked like a gangster, so I called him “Rodrigo the gangster.”

He also seemed to have a lot of friends in prison.

Rodrigo was going on about how this guy got into it with a cop and beat the cop senseless. That’s another thing about him, he would talk excitedly about all these crimes his friends committed as if he was describing how his kid brother took first place at the science fair for building the best robot.

“Yeah, dis friend of mine was a BIG MOFO, and he beat da CRAP outta dis COP! And da cop was like, lying there all knocked out and shit bro, then da other cops came and one of ‘em had dis badass German Shepherd and so he let it loose on my friend, and like, WHOA MAN!”

Rodrigo had a tiny bit of spittle form on his chin, he was getting THAT excited. I was tempted to reach over and wipe it off but I didn’t want a knife in the gut.

He continued…

“Dis German Shepherd tore da FUCK outta my friend and he got sent to the hospital after they arrested him, and he’s still in prison for beating up dat cop, but man, dat dog tore da SHIT outta him, bro!”

This was Andy’s cue…

“Eh” (shrug)

Rodrigo did some kind of gangster hand gesture to indicate exasperation, then he said, “What, you don’t think so?”

Andy shrugged again, this time, twice! TWO SHRUGS? Whoa, he was REALLY being nonchalant!

“Naw man, your friend just didn’t know how to deflect the dog’s jaws away correctly. It’s easy. You just get your hand up under its throat and thrust upward, then get a choke hold on it with the other hand… that dog would go DOWN.”

Rodrigo looked at Andy as if Albanian monkeys had just flown out of his butt.

“Whatch you talkin’ about, foo? Ain’t nobody puttin’ down a German fucking SHEPHERD that’s got its mind set on tearing your arms off, man! You been watchin’ too much TV little bro!”

Then he laughed while Andy shrugged again and sauntered off, with that cloud of nonchalance tagging along.

The kid was only 18, MAYBE 19.. and he hadn’t been around that much. Still living at home, even. I kind of dread the day when something happens to him that won’t quite kill him but will kill off his nonchalance and I won’t be able to call him “Invincible Andy” anymore because he’ll realize he’s a mere mortal just like the rest of us.

One day I had to call for the hotel van to get a ride to work. Andy was driving and, of course, he had to do about 70 in a 35mph zone, weaving from lane to lane with the music blasting on the radio and his right arm resting nonchalantly (there’s that word again!) on the top of the steering wheel while his left arm hung out the open window, not being utilized for steering purposes.

“Andy, maybe you could slow down a bit, I’m not in a hurry.”

“Eh (shrug)… we’ll be okay, I’m an excellent driver.”

Ah, youth, I’d blame it all on video games, just as any responsible oldster should, but I was the same way and I didn’t play video games.

But I’ll blame it on video games anyway.

So, I’m thinking that someone should invent a video game that has actual, real-life consequences. If you don’t jump all the way over the lava pit, you get scalded.

If you don’t beat-up the gangster, he beats you up.

If you don’t duck the swinging blades in time, well… you get the idea.Invent some video games like that and NO MORE INVINCIBLE ANDYS!